“I won’t do that, I promise you, Mama,” Adam replied. “Indeed, I hope that you at least may be able to live in tolerable comfort, even if we can none of us remain at Fontley.”

Charlotte said in a faltering voice: “Must Fontley be sold? Can nothing be done to save it?”

He was looking down at the smouldering logs in the hearth, and answered only with a tiny shake of his head. Tears started to her eyes, but before they could spill over Lydia created a diversion by observing dispassionately that she rather thought Mama was suffering a Spasm.

The widow’s aspect was certainly alarming, and although she revived sufficiently, when her vinaigrette was held under her nose, to express a desire for hartshorn, it was not until a dose of this cordial had been procured by her younger daughter, and held to her lips by Charlotte, that she was able to raise her head from the cushion, and to utter in brave, but failing accents: “Thank you, my dear ones! Pray don’t regard it! It was nothing — merely the agitation of having the dreadful tidings broken to me in such a way — ! You. have been for so long a stranger to your home, dearest Adam, that you could not be expected to know how wretchedly worn down are my poor nerves.”

“You must forgive me, Mama: I had really no intention of oversetting you,” said Adam. “It seemed to me to be cruel to conceal from you what you must learn, sooner or later.”

“No doubt you did as you thought right, my dear son. My first-born!” said the widow, extending to him one frail hand. “But had your brother been spared to me he would have understood how shattering this blow must be to me! Ah, my poor Stephen! always so considerate, so exactly partaking of my sentiments!”

Since the career of her second-born, cut off while he was still up at Oxford, had been distinguished by a sublime disregard for any other considerations than those immediately concerning himself, this ejaculation caused her surviving children to exchange speaking glances.